Canon's Diary

Every week is much the same. After working full days from Monday through Friday, I am completely worn out by Friday evening, and by the time I make it home, I collapse into a kind of quiet exhaustion. Yesterday was no different. I didn’t feel like cooking, so I bought a breaded egg cutlet bento from the supermarket. After dinner, I had a small glass of Scotch and watched television absentmindedly. I had been curious about the situation in the Middle East, but there was no news coverage, and nothing else caught my interest. Before long, I turned off the TV and took a hot shower.

Letting the hot water run from my head down the back of my neck, I felt as though some unseen impurities within me were being gently washed away. I splashed water over my face, rinsing off the cypress pollen clinging stubbornly to my eyelids. After stepping out of the bathroom, I dried myself carefully and tidied my hair with a dryer. Then I returned to the dimly lit living room and swallowed the medicine my doctor had prescribed with a glass of cold water. It was all part of a routine by now. Once finished, sleep came naturally—I brushed my teeth and drifted off without resistance.

On Saturday mornings, a lingering heaviness often remains even after waking. I tend to stay in bed longer than I should, trying to recover from the week’s fatigue. I had a tennis lesson scheduled for eleven, but I wasn’t in the mood. While eating a simple breakfast of ham and lettuce on toast with onion soup, I pressed the cancel button on my phone.

I set the washing machine running and began cleaning the room. Dusting the furniture, sweeping the floor with a broom and dustpan, I cleared away the small accumulations of the week. It’s a small room, so it doesn’t take long. When I opened the window and hung out the laundry, warm sunlight poured in, revealing the quiet streets of Tonda. It was the last Saturday of March. The forecast said it would be sunny all day, with temperatures rising to twenty-two degrees. In Tokyo, the cherry blossoms were already in full bloom; in Osaka, they were expected to reach their peak by next weekend.

It has been nearly a year since I was transferred from Tokyo to Osaka to live alone. Last year’s cherry blossom season, I spent in Tokyo. Being able to show my father—who passed away the following May—the blossoms one last time has remained a quiet comfort in my heart. Well then, I thought, I have the time today. Perhaps I’ll go and see the cherry blossoms. I found myself thinking this as I ate my usual bowl of cabbage soba for lunch.

In the corner of my room sit two aging digital cameras. One is a Canon EOS Kiss X4 I bought in Hamamatsu in 2010; the other is a Sony α NEX-5, inherited from my father. With the rise of smartphones, fewer people carry such bulky cameras these days. Yet the thrill of peering through a viewfinder, the tactile motions of zooming and focusing, the sound of the shutter, the solid weight in the hand—these are pleasures a phone cannot replace. The battery still had some life in it. I decided I would continue to take good care of these cameras, including the one my father left me.

The Japanese have a deep affection for cherry blossoms. During the brief time each year when they bloom in full, people gather in parks as if they have been waiting all along, simply to gaze at them. Famous spots like Maruyama Park in Kyoto, with its weeping cherry tree in Gion, or Ueno Park in Tokyo, draw large crowds. Until last year, I would visit the cherry trees along the Onda River near my family home in Naruse every spring. It is a beautiful place as well. But in truth, cherry blossoms can be found everywhere in Japan. In spring, one needs only to walk a short distance to encounter them. For the Japanese, they mark the passage of time—another year lived, another season returned. This year, too, we are able to see them. And so people look upon the blossoms with quiet gratitude.

I slipped the EOS Kiss X4 gently into my backpack, got on my electric-assist bicycle, and headed to Tsutsuiike Park, about five minutes from my apartment.

There was no longer any need for a heavy coat; the warm breeze felt pleasant against my skin. Soft sunlight lit the road, and the faces of passing people seemed calm, almost softened. Having come through the long winter, everyone appeared to welcome the arrival of spring. Tsutsuiike Park is a small, ordinary park, but it was lively with families. Along the embankment by a small stream, cherry trees had been planted, and people had spread out cloths beneath them, gathering in quiet celebration.

The blossoms were perhaps half in bloom. And yet, the cherry blossoms in Tokyo and those in Osaka wore the same expression. Their pale pink petals seemed to look back at me, gently telling me that a new season had arrived.

After returning home, I sent the photos I had taken to my mother in Tokyo via LINE. She had gone to see a nearby weeping cherry tree the week before. Lately, she has been complaining about her knees and how she cannot walk long distances. “Take it easy, and enjoy what you can,” I wrote back. Since moving to Osaka, my exchanges with my mother and sister have increased. Strangely enough, it feels as though we speak more now than when we lived together in Tokyo. Only recently have I come to understand that there are conversations that can exist precisely because of distance.

As evening approached, I began preparing dinner. Today, I made pork and beans—sautéing onions, pork, and carrots before adding tomato sauce and letting it simmer. I seasoned it with consommé and garlic. In the rice cooker, I prepared a mixed rice with broccoli, corn, and sausage. I added a Karatsu hamburger steak, ordered through a hometown tax program, with a side of lettuce. It turned into quite a generous meal. With plenty of leftovers from both the rice and the pork and beans, I knew I would be able to enjoy these flavors for a while.

As I recalled the cherry blossoms, still a little short of full bloom, I felt that I, too, could take my time—slowly settling into this season.